


End Radio Silence

by maybethefall



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, On the Run, Uncertain relationship, being followed, chilly encounters, secret meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 06:05:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6789073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybethefall/pseuds/maybethefall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only Sansa is aware of their fellow traveler. That's fine—at least, for the moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	End Radio Silence

It would only be by pure luck that anyone noticed his presence. He would be, as far as she could tell, silent and wary encroaching upon them too closely. Nothing, so far, seemed amiss. There were no unaccountable tracks in the snow, no hastily snuffed campsites, no ephemera in sight to prove that there was anyone out in the wild beyond herself and her party.

Yet Sansa knew he was fast on their trail. He had to be. He was like a blur from the corner of her eye, a dark cloaked phantom that spun away once caught in sight. And once noticed, she was certain she saw him everywhere.

Was it so obvious? The others recognized when she sensed him. Her brow would tense and she would stall whether on horse or on foot, holding until she felt the moment pass. Someone would always sit and wait with her, a delicate "Lady Sansa" falling from their lips and eager hands at the ready to take hold of hers. She would let them hold her: the momentary contact would do her good. It also allowed her to watch her protectors from a new vantage point. They always looked at her—never around at their surroundings.

They didn't have a clue.

There were no concerns broached when she informed them she needed to walk away a moment. They were far from Winterfell. Almost all felt an unfortunate sense of security. She did not feel it, not truly. But it could still be used to her advantage.

And so she waited, standing still and proper among the densely packed woods. She didn't move when he emerged from the thicket, snow-speckled and a little worse for wear. A thought intruded past all reason to remind her that this might seem romantic in any other situation: the princess on the run in a winter wonderland and her prince on the way to save her. Her mouth firmed to a sharp angle as she tried to suppress laughter. That was never their roles, separately or together. Such a thought was a childish fancy that was best banished back to those simpler times.

He stepped forward. She stepped back. His breath seemed to catch and, for a moment, something like hurt seemed to flash across his features. "Sansa," he said.

Her open palm sprang in front of her face. She shook her head. She studied his face through her fingers. All sense of concern had vanished. He gave a curt nod. She mimicked his move as her hand fell back to her side.

She took a few steps forward, careful to keep a distance between them that let them remain at eye level. "Careful," she mouthed. The rest was unspoken: my knight will do as I command, but don't expect me to save you from her rage.

He nodded. His brows arched up as he asked, "Stay?"

"Yes...but not too closely."

He smiled and offered her a shallow bow. "As you wish, my lady." She returned the gesture, careful that her eyes didn't break their hold with his.

Sansa did not wait for him to retreat amongst the trees before she set forth for camp. She tried not to dwell on their encounter as she made her way back to her party. If it still weighed in her thoughts, she might betray that to others. She would have time after dark to parse it all and plot for their next meeting.

They would have much to say. Any remaining illusions between them must be removed if they intend to survive any further.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired in part by the poem [They are hostile nations](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/47794) by Margaret Atwood.


End file.
